Whose road this is, I'll never know,
Nor whence it comes, nor where it goes,
Just how it wends, 'tis how I steer
Then stop, to see the mountains glow.
My little Porsche must think it queer
To stop so far from home, out here:
'Twas on a whim, I don't know why.
Beneath the rain, the fog draws near.
He sits there, softly idling by
As I take photos of the sky.
This place is dark, beneath a moon
which casts its light from up on high.
The frogs, they sing a lovely tune
And from their song, this idyll hewn.
But I should leave and drive home soon,
Must leave so I can be home soon.
